Jaskier went crashing to the floor, dragged down with enough force that he couldn't even snag the tablecloth as he scrambled to stay up. No, all he managed to do was knock a bunch of cutlery and a dish to the floor before Geralt hauled him down onto the marble. The Witcher had him in hand, grip hard on his belt, and then suddenly he wasn't--or rather, he was--
Geralt was back behind his own eyes.
It was only for a bare moment before the Witcher shoved him away, but it was there. Jaskier watched him sink back under, and fumbled for a weapon--the steak knife in hand was hardly going to work on a Witcher (and besides, he wasn't going to stab Geralt--he couldn't--not knowing whose fault this was).
It would work on that rope, though.
"Melitele's tits, Vanessa," Jaskier shouted at the ceiling as he retook his feet, as he darted back around that chair and tried to put the banquet table between Geralt and him. The Witcher was still rising when he reached the back wall, reached that damn rope--he took all his attention off Geralt, then, stupid as it was. The knife in hand was only sharp in the distant sense and he had to brace that rope as he sawed at it--it split fairly quickly, but it was also as thick as Jaskier's forearm.
"You didn't even like Erik!" Jaskier protested at the ceiling, again, hoping to goad the witch so she didn't realize what he was up to. The sea crashed outside in a constant drone and the chandelier jangled as one of the worsted cables of the rope split--two more, maybe just one--the weight of it had to be impressive. Surely it would fall on its own if the rope were weak enough--
no subject
Geralt was back behind his own eyes.
It was only for a bare moment before the Witcher shoved him away, but it was there. Jaskier watched him sink back under, and fumbled for a weapon--the steak knife in hand was hardly going to work on a Witcher (and besides, he wasn't going to stab Geralt--he couldn't--not knowing whose fault this was).
It would work on that rope, though.
"Melitele's tits, Vanessa," Jaskier shouted at the ceiling as he retook his feet, as he darted back around that chair and tried to put the banquet table between Geralt and him. The Witcher was still rising when he reached the back wall, reached that damn rope--he took all his attention off Geralt, then, stupid as it was. The knife in hand was only sharp in the distant sense and he had to brace that rope as he sawed at it--it split fairly quickly, but it was also as thick as Jaskier's forearm.
"You didn't even like Erik!" Jaskier protested at the ceiling, again, hoping to goad the witch so she didn't realize what he was up to. The sea crashed outside in a constant drone and the chandelier jangled as one of the worsted cables of the rope split--two more, maybe just one--the weight of it had to be impressive. Surely it would fall on its own if the rope were weak enough--